Murder for Christ's Mass tk-4

by Maureen Ash

  As they made their replies, the older of the two, a hirsute man with a thick wiry beard named Jed, pulled at his lower lip thoughtfully and added that the clerk had seemed a little excited in the two or three days before he disappeared.

  “How so?” Bascot asked.

  “He were merry, like,” Jed replied. “Not that he were ever glum. Mostly he seemed a friendly enough fellow-mayhap a bit too garrulous at times-and always gave a greeting in passing, but for those days ’twas like he was burstin’ with happiness. We all knew he was lookin’ forward to going home to see his sweetheart, and reckoned he was in high spirits at the prospect of bein’ with her again. But mebbe we wus wrong; mebbe ’twas somethin’ else that had nowt to do with the girl.” The guard looked at Bascot with sorrow in his dark eyes. “Mebbe ’twas that somethin’ else that got him killed.”

  When Bascot added a question about money stored in the exchange, both men were adamant that the only time coinage was brought onto the premises was during transactions with customers.

  “And then it’s only there for as long as it takes to exchange it,” Jed assured him. “All t’other times the money is kept in the mint, else we’d be on guard every day and all night too, just like the men that work for Master de Stow. ’Twould suit our purpose right enough if it was, then we’d get our lodgings free and wouldn’t have to share a room in this hovel.”

  The Templar did not detect guile in either of the men. They had answered his questions readily and without evasion; if they had been privy to any criminal activity in the exchange, Bascot was sure they would not have been so candid. Disappointed, he bought the men a pint of ale each and returned to the castle.

  Later that evening, after he and Gianni had returned to the hall and were watching the Lord of Folly command six of his fellow servants to spin around in a circle until they could no longer stand, the Templar felt as though his own senses were reeling. The more he investigated the murder of the two men, the more he felt as though he was caught in a maelstrom that was tossing him first one way, and then another. Again, he wondered whether the sheriff was correct in his assumption that the deaths of Brand and Fardein were connected. And, if he was, did the murders have a further link with a cache of silver coins, as Camville also surmised? If either of these suppositions was in error, he was following a false trail by giving them credence. In the case of Tasser’s apprentice, and given the silversmith’s penchant for larceny, the motive for Fardein’s death could be associated with his employer’s illegal acts. As for Brand, the exchange guard had said the clerk seemed excited during the few days before he was murdered. Lust was often a stimulant, especially in a young man thwarted by distance from the object of his affections-had Brand found a new love in closer proximity than Grantham, one that lived in Lincoln but whose affections were engaged elsewhere? Even though the quarry did not seem a likely place for a tryst, was it possible the clerk had been lured there by an irate husband, or even a jealous paramour, and subsequently murdered for his sexual trespass? But if that was so, and his love for the girl in Grantham had waned, why had a betrothal ring seemingly intended for her been among his belongings?

  The Templar shook his head to clear it of his swirling thoughts. There could be many reasons for the slaying of either man, as there always were in instances of secret murder. He must be patient. Tomorrow, if the weather held fine, he would ride to Grantham and speak to Brand’s mother and the girl. Perhaps one of them would have information that would help him.

  Chapter 13

  At Walter Legerton’s manor house in Canwick, celebration of the New Year’s arrival was in full spate. There were about twenty guests in all; most of them acquaintances who lived in Lincoln, invited to stay for the duration of the holy days with their wives and children, along with a pair of elderly sisters, both spinsters, who were distant cousins of Walter and Silvana.

  As at the castle, after the exchanger and his guests had broken their fast, Legerton distributed the customary small gifts of silver coins to his staff and then presented his two young sons with belts of chased leather. To each of his cousins he gave silver thimbles inscribed with their names and then instructed his steward to distribute inexpensive items of jewellery to the women guests-small brooches or cloak clasps of silver gilt. All of the recipients thanked him and praised his thoughtfulness-all except Iseult, the wife of Simon Partager.

  Iseult’s pretty mouth pouted with disappointment as she, like a few of the other women, received a brooch shaped in the likeness of a flower. The brooch was no more remarkable than the rest and Iseult threw her lover a barely veiled look of resentment as she cast it carelessly on the table in front of her.

  Silvana, seated beside her brother at the table on the dais, noticed Iseult’s glare of dissatisfaction and, leaning over to Walter, said in a whisper, “Your mistress is not pleased with your gift, Brother. What happened to the jewelled comb you showed me, the one you said was intended for her?”

  “It is locked away in my chamber,” Walter replied, “and will stay there until I can return it to the merchant from whom I bought it. I told you I was tiring of Iseult and I did not lie.”

  Silvana gave a small smile of satisfaction. Her brother was finally learning to curb his excesses and she was glad Iseult was among the first to be restrained.

  Walter noticed his sister’s gratification and felt guilty. If Silvana should find out he had far more to worry about than the resentment of a jilted leman, or even the small amount of money he had borrowed from the Jew, she would be horrified. He hoped he could find a way to solve his most pressing problem without his devoted sister ever being aware it existed.

  Silvana Legerton was not the only one who noticed Iseult’s displeasure. Her husband also saw her look of disappointment and, like Silvana, knew the cause. Iseult had taken barely any notice of Simon’s own gift to her, an intricately embroidered girdle that had cost him almost half a year’s wages. Anger surged up in Partager’s breast as his wife thanked him distractedly, her eyes hot with indignation as she glanced up at Legerton. She then turned away from Simon and began to talk to the man seated on her other side, a young fellow who was the son of a Lincoln draper and had accompanied his parents to Canwick in response to the exchanger’s invitation. He was a handsome youth with curly red hair, knowing blue eyes and an infectious grin. As Iseult laughed up at him, flirting outrageously, Simon knew she was doing so in an attempt to make Legerton jealous, but the exchanger took no notice, more interested in his conversation with his sister and two sons than in a woman that had briefly captured his fancy.

  Partager toyed with a piece of manchet bread on the table in front of him, bile rising in his throat as he forced himself not to allow his anger to show on his face. He had been in Legerton’s employ for a few years now and happily so until he had married Iseult on a bright day in the middle of last summer. He had met his future bride at Eastertide of that same year, just as the congregation attending the service was leaving the cathedral. Iseult’s beauty had immediately captivated him. She had dropped her glove as she and her sister walked past him and, when he picked it up and returned it to her, he thought he would drown in the blueness of her eyes. She, with a tinkling laugh, had thanked him prettily for his courtesy and told him she was from Nottingham and was visiting a married sister, who lived in Lincoln. For days afterwards he had dreamed of Iseult’s beautiful hair, like twin ropes of corn silk, and the lush fullness of her mouth. He had pursued her avidly until, a few weeks later, she consented to be his wife.

  The joyous day of their wedding celebration was the last happy time that Simon remembered. As he recalled how eagerly he had brought his new wife to Legerton’s house and installed her in the comfortable chamber he was allotted as part payment of his salary, bitterness engulfed him. That first night, as he led Iseult out to sit by his side at the evening meal, he thought his heart would burst with pride as he saw the admiring glances sent in her direction by all of the household, servants and Legerton’s family alike. How
foolish he had been, he reflected. Within just a few short weeks, the beautiful girl he had married was sharing his employer’s bed at the manor house while he, her husband, was sent by Legerton to the exchange office in Lincoln for days-and nights-at a time.

  The moment of revelation was struck into his memory just as surely as the image of the king was hammered into the surface of a new silver penny. One morning he returned to the manor house earlier than expected, prompted to do so by the sudden appearance of a gold bracelet on Iseult’s wrist a couple of days before. She said it had been a gift from her mother on the occasion of their marriage but Simon did not believe her. Iseult would surely have shown him such a costly present as soon as she received it and she had not done so. Alone in the exchange office in Lincoln, his suspicions grew so large he could not concentrate on his work. Legerton’s insistence that he remain overnight in the exchange when there was not enough work to require the extra hours fuelled his mistrust. Deciding to make an attempt to lay his disquietude to rest, he returned to Canwick well before dawn, tying his horse up outside the manor door so as not to disturb the stable servants. Stealing quietly into the house, he hoped to find his wife sleeping chastely alone in their marriage bed. As he made his way down the dark passageway to their chamber, Iseult was coming from the direction of Legerton’s room. In her hand was a candle, and its light revealed that she wore only a thin summer cloak over her naked body. Her features were flushed with the aftermath of lovemaking. Partager had not revealed his presence, nor spoken of what he knew, either to her or to Legerton. Despite his wife’s betrayal, the assayer was still desperately in love with her. The knowledge that his beloved young bride was nothing more than a wanton burned in his gut like a canker, but he knew that if he accused her, the pretense of harmony between them would be destroyed. However little was the happiness they shared, he did not want to lose even the smallest jot.

  He glanced at Iseult as she gave the draper’s son a suggestive glance from her entrancing blue eyes. Looking around, he saw the knowing looks the household servants were casting in her direction. Not only he, her husband, but all those in the hall were aware of Iseult’s proclivities, knew that now that Legerton’s interest in her had waned she would look for a new lover. Simon had to get her away from Canwick, and Lincoln town, somewhere where her reputation was unknown and they could start afresh. Once he had accomplished that, he would tackle her licentiousness, warn her that if she strayed again, he would disown her and leave her to whatever fate awaited a woman scorned by her husband for unfaithfulness. Iseult, for all her lechery, was not a stupid woman. He was sure she would obey him if he threatened to cast her aside. Although he had made plans that would enable him to realise this goal, the completion of a few minor details still remained before he could bring them to fruition.

  In Lincoln town, Helias de Stow and his wife were walking back to their home after attending Mass at the cathedral. Even though the temperature had risen, there were still treacherous puddles of slush scattered on the cobbles, and the moneyer’s wife had a secure grip on her husband’s arm to aid her unsteady steps. Behind them trailed their two daughters, girls of ten and eleven, in the company of the young maidservant de Stow employed to tend to the needs of the females in his household. The family was looking forward to getting back to their house and a warm fire-side, but although they tried to step along Mikelgate with a quick pace, the ground was too slippery to do more than trudge slowly.

  As her foot slid once again in the miry mess, Blanche looked up at her husband. “We should have gone to the service at St. Mary Crackpole, as you suggested, Helias. I am sorry for my insistence on going to the cathedral.”

  Helias patted his wife’s arm. “Do not be concerned about it, Wife,” he said. “The service was uplifting and most welcome, especially as a consolation for the sadness brought on us by Peter’s death.”

  “Do you know if the sheriff has any suspects for the crime yet?” Blanche asked.

  “I do not believe so,” Helias replied. “The Templar knight came back again to ask if we knew the lodging place of the two men who guard the exchange, but he said nothing to indicate he knew who was responsible for Peter’s murder.”

  Blanche did not attempt any more conversation until her husband had manoeuvred her around a particularly dirty patch of melting snow. “You will have to engage a new clerk, Helias. Have you thought of anyone suitable?”

  The moneyer shook his head. “I think I will have to carry on alone for a bit, even though it makes a lot of extra work. Once the feast of Epiphany is over, I will call on the head of the silversmith’s guild and see if he can recommend someone.”

  As he said this, they were not far from the door of Warner Tasser’s manufactory and, as their steps drew level with the entrance, the silversmith emerged, carrying a bundle in his hands. When he saw Helias and his family, his plump jowls creased into a smile and he made a low bow.

  “Good morrow, Master de Stow,” he said in a congenial manner, bestowing a friendly look on Blanche as well as the moneyer. “I hope this day finds you and your family in good spirits.”

  Helias nodded to the silversmith and made a civil reply but did not pause for further conversation. He could feel his wife’s shocked gaze on him as they continued their trek down Mikelgate but she constrained herself from speaking until they were out of Tasser’s earshot.

  “How dare that man address you?” she demanded in outrage. “He is a thief and an embarrassment to his guild.” When her husband made no response, Blanche’s voice hardened. “I hope he has not forced his acquaintance on you, Helias. If he has, it will do your reputation no good, no good at all.”

  Helias again patted his wife’s arm in a comforting manner. “Do not fret, my dear. It is only polite to respond to his greeting. We have just celebrated the season of Christ’s birth, after all. At such a time, you would not have me disobey Our Lord’s commandment to show goodwill to all men, would you?”

  Blanche made no reply to her husband’s mild reprimand, but the ambiguity of his response made her uneasy.

  Fourteen

  In the early hours of the next morning, just after Nocturn, the fire bell hanging from a pole on Mikelgate began to ring. Its insistent pealing soon had people running from their homes and out into the street. Captain Roget and the off-duty guards sleeping in the town gaol leapt from their beds and pulled on their boots. As Roget and his men ran towards the sound of the tocsin, one of the men who had been on night patrol met them just as they rounded the corner of Brancegate.

  “The fire’s in the casket maker’s shop, just down there,” he said, pointing to the end of the road.

  His men at his heels, Roget ran towards the glow of flames flickering around the shutters of a casement on the ground floor. “The alarm was sounded by a sempstress who lodges above the shop,” the guard told Roget as they ran. “She’s a widow and got herself and her two children out safely, but she said she hasn’t seen the casket maker since early yesterday afternoon. He must still be in there.”

  Shouting to two of his men to bring ladders and hatchets, Roget directed others to gather some of the emergency water barrels placed about the town and roll them to the site of the fire. A crowd of neighbouring householders were hauling buckets of water from a well in the middle of the street and Roget pushed past them to take stock of the situation. The casement was burning fiercely, flames licking up the walls of stout timber beams set in a crosswise fashion atop a low foundation wall of stone. The preservative tar painted on the beams was beginning to blister and pop with an ominous sound, as was the wattle and daub used as infill. Although there was only a slight danger of the tiled roof catching fire, it was imperative to prevent the wooden framework of the dwelling, and that of the adjoining houses, from igniting. Roget hoped the recent snow and rain had dampened the wood thoroughly enough to make it difficult for the flames to easily catch hold.

  As the two men he had sent for ladders and hatchets came running with the equipment, the clat
ter of horses’ hoofs could be heard as Ernulf and a half dozen men-at-arms from the castle raced down Mikelgate to give their assistance. Propping the ladders up against the walls of the adjacent houses, the soldiers clambered up and tossed buckets of water onto the beams at the top of the house’s facade, while the men of the town guard tried to douse the flames at ground level. Roget ripped off his cloak and, soaking it with water from one of the emergency barrels, wrapped the dripping fabric around his arm and lifted it to shield his face as he took an axe to the burning casement. The wood of the shutter was almost burned through and fell quickly, but as soon as it lay smouldering on the ground, fierce flames from the inside of the window leapt greedily through the opening.

  As townspeople ran forward with more buckets, Roget called to the sempstress, who was standing with her arms around her crying children at the edge of a crowd of frightened women. “The casket maker-where does he sleep?”

  “In a room at the back,” she replied. “But ’tis in that room”-she pointed to the burning chamber beyond the casement-“that he keeps cloths for lining the coffins. It must be those that are burning. Our room is just above and the smell of smoke woke me up.”

  “We can’t get through the casement, the flames are too fierce,” Roget shouted to Ernulf. “We’ll have to go through the door.”

  The serjeant nodded and, as Roget had done, removed his cloak and dunked it into a water barrel. As the two men went towards the front door, which had been left slightly ajar by the fleeing sempstress and her children, the captain yelled to one of his guards. “Take two men and go down the lane behind the building. Make sure the fire has not spread to the back of the house.”

  As the men ran to do his bidding, he and Ernulf, their upper torsos and heads swathed in the dampened cloaks, kicked open the door. Inside, the passageway was filled with dense black smoke, but thankfully there were, as yet, no flames. Calling for his men to bring more water, Roget used it to soak the wood of the door that led into the burning room before cautiously pushing it open. There was a slight whoosh of hot air as he did so but, once they were inside, it was apparent the core of the fire was, as the sempstress had suggested, in a pile of burning cloth. The material lay directly underneath the open window and was fiercely ablaze. A coffin on a stand on the opposite side of the room had begun to char from the heat but, apart from that, the rest of the room was intact. There was no sign of the casket maker.